-I
can’t stand
English tea! Because when the Nazis left we had nothing to eat or
drink for two weeks or so. When the English arrived the first thing
they gave us was tea, and we were all sick and since this time I
cannot drink tea.

I
raised my eyebrows and
grinned at her. In my mind I pictured the Brits, faced with the
horror, running round panicking.

-Jesus Christ! What the hell
should we do?

-I
don’t know
mate, put the kettle on, and then we’ll sort it all out.

I
shrugged.

-Well,
erm…

I
giggled a little.

-Coffee
then?

What
Aunty Ruth was
talking about was being in the Camps. Liberated by the British, who
forty odd years later finds herself being breakfasted by another
Brit, in an old Sudeten-Deutsche Lodge in the mountains on the border
of Poland and Czech.

It
had taken me a while
to persuade Aunty Ruth to come visit us. She was never one to rough
it. Ruth wanted the finer things in life, a little luxury, and who
could blame her?

When
I had first visited
her at her artist husband’s flat we had partaken of coffee in
the drawing room surrounded by art.

Served
cakes were on
blue patterned china, I grabbed at a coconut flecked jam sponge. The
conversation stopped and all eyes turned.

I
stopped and held the
cake at my open gob.

My
eyes moved left and
right.

-What,
what?

-We
do have cake forks
you know!

Of
course she did.

So,
anyway it had taken
me ages to convince her that our little hideaway was of the highest
standard, and it was.

Antique
and rustic
furniture mingled with communist relics and First Republic gadgets.

We
picked her up from
the train station, and drove slowly through the blinding snow storm.
The smell and glow of oak welcomed her in.

She
handed over two
small packages. Two decorated paper bags. Inside two treasures
unwrapped.

-If
you don’t like
them you can sell them.

We
looked inside; I had
a silver cigarette case, her husband’s. My wife had a miniature
Powder puff case, silver.

-No
no, we love them,
thank you.

*****

Ruth’s
husband’s
art was all over our place, this made her happy, and she looked at
the picture of the farmhouse in Crete where they had managed to get
to one year, and smiled a little.

He
had given some of it
to us for a wedding present, this was when he was alive, well barely,
as he was quite ill, and used a bag and a cane, as they had operated
on the wrong leg.

I
had admired the man
and his art, so was very happy to receive the case. Unfortunate then
that I had switched to electronic cigarettes six months before. But
still, it looked nice on the bookcase.

The
powder-puff case was
another story.

Ruth’s
great Uncle
Oldrich had been in the Great War; reluctantly fighting for the
Empire, against the British.

He
was captured by the
British and sent to a camp in Scotland. The prisoners were treated
well, they never tried to escape, why would they? However, the
weather did not agree with a lot of the middle-Europeans, and Ruth’s
Great Uncle became very ill with pneumonia.

-He
was cared for very
well, he said. The doctors were very kind. He had a fondness for your
British tea too, which is funny.

The
uncle returned to
Moravia where he spent months and months in a special Spa. He bathed
in and drank smelly cloudy sulphur waters to help. Ruth visited as
often as she could, she sang songs and read books to him, for
comfort.

Now,
during all this
time he had done the lottery. Every week without fail he would place
a little money on his lucky numbers. Even when he was away his wife
had firm instructions to place money on the numbers.

Eventually
his illness
worsened and they had to amputate his legs. The following week, he
won the lottery.

He
won!

He
won a motorbike.

When
he was well enough
he was told this by his wife, he laughed. He laughed for such a long
time he brought on a coughing fit and was very ill again for a few
days after. Eventually he got better and instructed his wife to sell
the damn motorbike. When well enough to return home, his wife pushed
his wheelchair around the plush department store in Brno as he picked
out little presents for the people he loved. One of those presents
was for his favourite little niece, and for her he picked out a very
small powder puff case. Just the right size for a little lady.

*****

We
were separated at
school.

Suddenly
the teachers
got nasty.

Urging
the other kids,
our friends, to mock us.

Why?
I didn't understand
it.

'Why
Mama? What did we
do wrong?'

There
were few answers.

Some
people came to our
house. They seemed like Police, but new Police.

They
took away my
things. And all the bright things in the house. Anything pretty.

I
hid the little
powder-puff case in my special hiding place.

Uncle
Oldrich had told
me to take special care of it.

The
nastiness and stupid
things continued.

I
couldn't understand
it.

No-body
seemed to
understand it.

We
were made to sew the
Star of David on our clothes.

Our
neighbour’s
shops were burnt or left windowless after a night of rain and a
morning of sun that left the streets sparkling and smoking.

An
old lady spat in my
father's face as he held my hand on the way home from school for the
last time.

I
held his hand so
tight.

If
I held his hand I
thought everything would be alright.

'Why
can't I go to
school Dada?'

“Don't
worry Ruth, one day you will go back.'

'But
Dada, I am a good
student, why can't I go to school, I don't understand?'

'Some
people don't want
us there Ruth, bad people…but they won't always be there. We
have seen this before. Things will go back to normal, you will see.'

'Do
you promise?'

'I
promise.'

I
could see in his eyes
that he hadn't really promised. Not like when he promised to take me
to the boating lake, or to buy me the flowery dress in Mr Benes's
window.

It
wasn't a promise like
the one when he told me about the huge slices of cake and ice cream
he would buy me for my birthday in the Tivoli Kavarna.

Now,
his eyes showed
fear and I knew he couldn't keep his promise.

Mr
Polosky’s shop
was all burned out, and I didn't know where he had gone. Many people,
our neighbours, had just gone. One minute they were there, then they
disappeared.

My
best friend, Eva was
gone, she didn't even say goodbye.

No
one would say where
people had gone.

My
Mother came home and
sat at the table. She burst into tears, her head in her hands.

My
Father stood over
her, stroking her long black hair.

She
had been sent home
from the hospital, where she helped the new babies.

Others
in our street and
around were sent home. People stopped working.

We
had to queue for
food, awful food.

My
Father was still able
to help his patients. But was given no medicine to help them.

He
pleaded at the
community centre to the more important men in our community. They did
nothing to help him.

The
queues got longer.

The
new uniformed people
started to order us around, not just the new Police force, but people
who had been our friends, our neighbours. They began to shout at us.

Some
came and argued
with my father in the street, by the lines of people waiting to see
him.

They
pushed people away,
and sometimes hit them. And screamed in their faces.

I
wanted it all to end.
At night I closed my eyes and tried to wish it all away.

It
felt like when I had
a bad dream and I couldn't reach something or couldn't run fast
enough, and tried to wake myself up, because I knew I was dreaming,
but couldn't wake up.

It
felt like this.

*****

The
street shook from
heavy trucks. I looked out of the window. They were all over the
square.

Orders
were being shouted out in a nasty sounding German. Red-checked men in
helmets clattered out of the trucks, busy as ants. They all looked
very disorganised, until they were ordered to halt. And then like
mechanical ants they were all in order.

The
soldiers entered all the buildings, shouting and shouting, pushing
and pushing, making people leave their apartments. Doors were booted
in. Office workers were hurried into the street. People grabbed coats
and boots.

We
went down quickly, we
didn't want the ants to come inside our home. We were pushed by guns
under the Baroque arches of the square. Those of us who had coats and
the shirtless office workers.

The
mayor of the town Mr
Sheller, was busy, his red face was redder than usual, and his usual
lovingly greased moustache was a bit shabby! He hurried and
complained about being pushed. And he straightened his top hat and
pushed his bursting waistcoat out. And wanted to know what the
meaning of this was.

I
remember these words.

'What
is the meaning of
this, I am no Jew, why are we being pushed around?'

The
other office workers mumbled complaints also, mainly to the new
police, as the soldiers stood a little way off, not talking, or
moving, just watching. The police ordered silence.

We
were separated; girls
with mothers,

I
cried as they dragged,
shoved and beat men and boys onto waiting Lorries. People screamed,
people begged, people pleaded.

I
held out my arms
desperately, trying to reach someone.

I
ran after the trucks
as they left.

That
was the last time I
saw my Dada and my brothers.

I
knew we were going to
be taken away, so I managed to run into our flat and take the
powder-puff case from under the floor boards. I hid it in my knickers
thinking that no-one would look there.

*****

-So
what happened?

-Well,
my mother and I
were taken by train to Terrazin camp, you know of this yes?

-Sure.

-The
Journey was
terrible. One bucket for toilet and one of a foul smelling water. We
slept all bodies entwined, out of necessity and for the need of
warmth.

Things
were not so bad
there, I mean not so bad as what I experienced later.

We
were over-crowded,
but there was some food and some normal life. I even went to school,
not a normal school, just some classes given by teachers.

But
many people died. I
was afraid and cried all the time, my mother covered my eyes, but
couldn’t stop me seeing.

I
became a woman. My
childhood taken from me.

There
were tradesmen,
carpenters and toolmakers, cobblers and tailors. My mother found a
cobbler who put a special heel on my boot, somewhere I could hide the
case.

In
the dormitories we
slept two, three to a bunk with one sheet.

After
some weeks we were
put onto train trucks again. We travelled for weeks.

When
we arrived at the
station on our final stop, we were told that this was an educational
work camp.

Some
thousand or so
people were separated and as we stood shivering. We heard volley
after volley of shots in the distance.

We
were a few hundred
left now, all women. Other women were marched to other such camps.

Our
huts were basic,
with a stove. We had little fuel but we scrapped enough together to
have some heat. We were allowed to mingle freely in the parade
ground.

We
listened to stories
and rumours of all sorts; hope, no hope, savagery, kindness,
slaughter, rehabilitation. Rescue.

We
were made to work in
the forests and the quarry. The work was exhausting. We were given
soup and black bread.

Our
guards were
Estonians or Russians. Some were kind, some not. Some gave us extra
food and smiles.

My
mother was taken ill
with typhoid as were many, they were not cared for but taken away, I
don’t know where.

One
guard was taken by
my friend Tasha, who had comforted me after my mother left. We
snuggled in my bunk and tried to give some of the love back that had
been taken away from our lives; we slept, in embrace, holding a
comfort.

This
guard Otto smiled
at first, tipped his hat, then talked more and more to Tasha when he
could, and gave her chocolate. Chocolate! It was as if a fairy Prince
has given her a palace of gold. We shared the chocolate, at night,
under blankets.

Otto
and Tasha took
great risks in trying to meet and just talk.

One
day Otto gave Tasha
a small red lip-stick…There were no mirrors in the camp.

What
does someone need
with a lip-stick in hell?

None
of us had even
looked at ourselves for a long time, only in the reflection of water.

At
night, when no-one
was looking, I unlocked my shoe hiding place and gave her the
Powder-puff case. She cried when she looked at herself; blotched red
face, matted hair, scratches, scars, and oldness.

We
the girls scrubbed
her face and body, and with much pain tried to untangle her hair.

The
day was a holiday
for the guards, and a day of rest for us. The atmosphere was relaxed.
We snuck away and got out the case again. And with no-one watching
she applied the red lipstick and then walked to the fence, to Otto.

He
looked at her for a
short time…we were huddled together watching from a short
distance.

He
looked at her and
tears rolled down his checks. He didn’t speak, he took off his
hat and with a sweep of his hand before him he bowed. Towards a
woman.

*****

-Jesus, what a story!

-And
what happened?

-Otto
and Sophie planned
an escape…under cover of darkness. We all collected a little
food and clothes, the best as we could manage. She left dressed as an
Estonian day worker. And we heard nothing for days. Then we heard
rumours; they had escaped to Scandinavia, they had been shot.

We
all clung to the
story of our Romeo and Juliet. That was our hope, our fantasies under
the rough blankets at night.

We
heard nothing for a
few weeks and we had hope.

But
one day we all
stopped work and walked to the wire, and watched in shock and
disappointment as they were marched back through the camp.

They
untied their hands
and made them stand straight in front of a firing squad against a
fence with the expanse of the wilderness behind them. As they tried
to reach for each other’s hands a volley of shots ripped into
their bodies. As the echoes faded the brownness of their bodies let
out a glow of steam as the red stained the white of the snow and
seeped into the mud, their fingers were touching.

*****

-And
your mother?

-I
never knew what
happened to her at the time.

We
were moved on very
quickly, into wagons again, there were no sick or old this time. We
travelled for days, to the final camps.

-Oh
my god, so sorry.

-Don’t
be sorry,
it was not your fault…

-Yes
but…

-There
is nothing one
can say of these things….I cried for sure, but I had to
live…to live for us both.

But
one thing I must
tell you about the Powder puff. Before we left another friendly guard
called Libor warned us not to take anything we had hidden, these
camps would be in Germany and Poland and much worse. I sat all night
thinking if to trust this man. I did….I gave him my Powder
puff case and he promised to hide it for me, and maybe one day if I
could, I would go and he would return it to me.

-And
you went back?

-You
are a very
impatient man…We were taken to the extermination camps. And I
was one of the few who survived. I was lucky.

You
have read all about
these camps I take it, so I won’t bore you with the details.

-Bore
me….

After
the liberation,
after months of being logged, made well, documented, pushed here,
taken there, injected here…I eventually made it back to Brno.
I was placed in a care home, and they cared for me.

-And
what about the
case?

-There’s
another
chapter to come, let’s have more coffee and I’ll tell it.

*****

In
the 1960’s I
applied to visit Estonia to visit the camp where my mother died. The
Red-tape was terrible, the authorities didn’t want the past
racked up, so made it terribly difficult for me to get a travel
permit.

I
wrote to a professor
of art in Estonia who knew of my husband and who had fought against
the Nazis.

We
corresponded and he
pulled strings, wrote letters, called in favours; did everything he
could to get me a travel pass. When it arrived, or I should say they
as there were mountains of documents, I cried.

The
Journey was long, I
took it alone and at every official juncture my journey was hindered.
I passed through scenery I seemed to remember, this time in a fairly
comfortable little carriage. The people were very polite to me except
the border guards, and at every frontier I was taken in for
questioning, and to have all my papers checked over and over again.

I
eventually made it to
Tallinn and met the professor, who gave me shelter in his apartment,
and made me most welcome. We journeyed to the place where the camp
used to be. This was the saddest part for me, the most vivid memories
came back into my mind. We visited the village close by. We were met
by the Mayor, a courteous man, but again I was questioned by local
party members, and had papers checked and checked. We were taken to a
small graveyard near to the outside of the old camp that was now a
pig farm. There was a little graveyard, with flowers, and little
wooden crosses… there was a plaque commemorating the women who
had died there, and there was my mother’s name. I knew she must
have died, but one always lives with a faint hope if one has not been
told the full truth. This was my mother’s resting place. I
thanked them all. They were happy to receive a relative of one of the
people from the camps. Happy to know that I, a person, had survived,
and was here to visit. They were happy for someone to see that they
cared, that they remembered. I was left alone looking at the
commemoration Plaque, a youngish woman approached me. She told me her
father had been at the camp and that he had promised to keep
something for one of the girls. She felt I should have it. She
unwrapped a red lace hanker-chief, and inside was the Powder-puff
case.

*****

-No
way! Sounds too
unbelievable to be true! And you bought it all the way back here…wow.

-These
little stories
are not so unbelievable, not compared to the unbelievable things that
went on. These thing, these little stories, coincidences’,
these little fates are our hope, our reality, our faith if you wish.

It
was by no means easy.
I had to hide it in my knickers again. The communist authorities were
always suspicious of anything connected with the war, and often stole
things or hid things away, but what half-drunk half-witted jobs-worth
would search the knickers of an old woman like me?

She
giggled.

-
So, I took many train
Journeys once again with the Case hidden. But this time the Journey
was home.

But
you must understand
that at that time people were reluctant to speak about the war, the
past.

After
the Revolution in
Czechoslovakia my husband who was a great traveller went back with me
to visit my mother’s resting place and we put a urn with her
name on it. Quite a few villagers came and stood with hats in their
hands.

And
I stood with them,
with the powder-puff grasped tightly in my hand.

~The End ~

Originally
from Birmingham but now living in Olomouc where he writes, teaches a
little, and in between looks after his son, Joe. He edits and designs
Jotters United Lit-zine.

Nick
has been at one time or another a chef, activist, union organiser,
punk rocker, teacher, traveler and eco-lodge owner in Malawi and
Czech.

Nick
has three books available at Amazon, Apple. and other booksellers.

Traveling
For The Hell Of It - A kind of travel book.Lyrics Without Music -
Gritty poems.Graffiti
Stories - A collection of short stories written as personal struggle
stories from the perception of the underdog protagonist.

His
work has been published in a variety of literary magazines including
Etherbooks, Bluehour Magazine, Roadside Fiction, Minor Literature,
and The Siren. Check out his site at www.nickgerrard.com

Contact Nick(Unless
youtype
the
author's namein
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of the message
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won't know where to send it.)